


...and Taste Its Choice Fruits

by JiniZ



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blasphemy, Celice, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Paddling, Priest Castiel, Priest Dean, Riding Crops, Rimming, Roman Catholicism, See you fuckers there, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:43:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10738170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JiniZ/pseuds/JiniZ
Summary: Deacon Castiel Novak has just six months to go before he completes his seminary and becomes a priest. He is assigned to Father Dean Winchester's parish, and he's not sure he can make it.





	...and Taste Its Choice Fruits

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely art by [ohcassie21](http://ohcassie21.livejournal.com/) on LJ aka [oh-cassie](http://www.oh-cassie.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. THANK YOU. You've been a joy to work with and I'm tickled that I got my first choice of art.

 

 

“Deacon. A word please.”

 _Fishsticks_ , Castiel thinks when he hears Father Winchester’s deep voice behind him. He knows he’s in trouble. Again. He can’t imagine what it is this time. It seems that every time he turns around Father Winchester is there to tell him he’s done something wrong.

“Yes, Father.” He keeps the eye rolling to himself as the priest passes him and he follows diligently behind. At least no one is in the nave, so he’s not embarrassed by the call, just put out.

For the past six months, Castiel Novak has been a transitional deacon under Father Dean Winchester. It’s his last step before he is ordained into the Catholic priesthood. But with another six months to go, he’s not certain it will ever happen. Father Winchester is a stickler for the rules.

Castiel should have known that from the moment they met that he’d be at odds with Father Winchester on nearly everything they discussed. He’s handsome and young, not much older than Castiel, and Castiel had hoped that because of their close proximity in ages that they would have similar views on the clergy.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Castiel considers himself a free spirit. He enjoys helping, doing God’s work wherever he is called. Meeting with parishioners gives him purpose. He’d nearly become a Jesuit before deciding he could do the most good in one community over time rather than several communities each year, barely having time to bond with the people of the community he would be sent to.

Father Winchester is a man who likes rules. Rules must be followed. No ifs, ands, or buts. He is up everyday at 5am and runs three miles. His diet consists of the four basic food groups, although most of his meals consist of bland, unsalted chicken and vegetables. Plus, he doesn’t eat anything with sugar in it. In fact, if a parishioner brings a homemade treat by the rectory, Father Winchester graciously thanks them and throws it out as soon as they’re gone.

What’s worse, is that Castiel has bottled this...not hatred...dislike for his mentor for months. With Father Winchester being the only other person who hears confession in the parish, Castiel can’t bring himself to confess all his sins to the man, so he confesses them in the privacy of his room. It helps, but it doesn’t feel the same as being absolved by another priest.

He’s thought about attending another parish’s confession, but that would require stealth and dishonesty of another kind which would just continue to pile onto the already rather large mound of unconfessed sins.

Castiel enters the office behind Father Winchester, who closes the door behind them. He looks around the room awkwardly, wishing he knew what he’s done wrong this time. The priest sits behind his desk, assuming an authoritarian position, rather than sitting next to Castiel on the same side. He knows he’s about to be talked to rather than with.

Father Winchester doesn’t say anything, simply sits back in his chair and steeples his fingers, waiting. Seconds tick by leaving Castiel more and more uncomfortable. Thirty seconds easily pass before he has to break the silence. “Something you wanted, Father?”

“How long have you been here, Deacon?” His voice is rough, gravelly. It’s the lowest register Castiel’s heard and he knows it can’t be good.

He clears his throat and wills himself not to squirm in his seat. “Uh, six months, Father.”

“And how do you think you’re doing?”

It’s a loaded question. Castiel believes he’s doing well. Or at least he would be doing well under any other priest besides Father Winchester. He decides to go with what he really believes. “Well, I would think.”

The Father nods, considering. “I’m not sure I would agree.” The man leans forward, elbows on the desk. “I think there is room for improvement.”

“Of course. Where do you think I can improve?” _Just get through this_ , he thinks. _You’ll be fine. Six more months. You can do this_. “I am eager to hear your thoughts.”

“Well, first, I think your last sermon was a bit...liberal, don’t you think?” He cocks an eyebrow.

“I was merely relaying the Pope’s sentiments -”

Father Winchester snorts.

“- that who are we to judge? After hearing some of congregation socialize after service last week, I felt they needed a reminder.”

“And isn’t that judging?” The Father’s tone is condescending and grates on Castiel’s nerves.

He concedes the point. “Somewhat, yes. It was more of a nudge in the right direction.”

“And you felt it was your duty to judge others.”

“To remind the congregation to love one another and to double-check for the plank in their own eye before judging the sliver in their neighbor’s? Yes.”

“I see.”

Another long silence stretches between them and Castiel reminds himself that he did the right thing. After hearing two women condemn a third for how she raised her children, and one elderly man complain about “kids today,” there was no question that’s what this week’s sermon would be on.

“Father, should I have done something differently?”

The priest nods slowly but says nothing. It’s starting to make Castiel angry. If there’s something he needs to do, something to fix, why won’t he just tell him? What’s with the staring?

“Castiel, you want to become a priest, yes?”

“Of course.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes,” he says somewhat forcefully. “Forgive me. That was harsher than I intended.” When Father Winchester says nothing, Castiel tries for direct. “Father, please. If there is something I need to do, I will do it.”

Apparently, those are the words that Father Winchester needed to hear. He cocks a sly smile. “Good.”

The priest stands and motions for Castiel to follow him. They exit the office and Father Winchester turns to the stairs that lead down to the basement. Their footsteps echo on the stone.

Castiel wants to ask where they’re going, but his voices resonate loudly in the cavernous hallway, so he keeps quiet. He’s not sure what’s down there other than the church’s food pantry, storage, and a second set of lavatories.

Father Winchester enters the food pantry and makes his way to the back of the room, deftly maneuvering around the metal racks of foodstuffs. Castiel observes the shelves look a little low and makes a mental note to slip a reminder into next week’s bulletin.

There is a built-in shelving unit on the far wall that Father Winchester stops in front of.  
He turns to Castiel. “You are certain you will do anything.” It’s a statement of confirmation rather than a question.

Castiel nods. “Yes, Father. Whatever instruction you can provide, I am willing to accept it.” Although what they’re doing in the food pantry has the younger man stumped. Maybe he’ll be rearranging the pantry items in an effort to teach him patience. Or taking inventory. He really has no idea.

Much to his surprise, Father Winchester pushes the left side of the shelving unit and it swings back into a room that Castiel had no idea existed. He thought he knew every nook and cranny of the small parrish.

The door swings open slowly, the hinges not making a sound. Father Winchester enters while Castiel simply stares, open-mouthed into the space. The priest turns back to him and motions for him to follow, which he does, tentatively.

“I had no idea this was here,” Castiel says as he takes it all in.

The room is mostly bare with dark walls. Straight ahead is a small altar with a red cloth on it. There is a small standing crucifix on it and items that Castiel doesn’t recognize. Directly above the altar on the wall is a framed crucifix, illuminated by a small picture light mounted above it, giving it an ethereal glow. The light from the food pantry and from above the crucifix are the only sources of light, casting dark shadows over the room.

Father Winchester slides the hidden door back into place, darkening the room significantly. He pauses a moment as if waiting for his eyes to adjust to the new level of light and then crosses to the altar and lights two small sconces above the table. Their flames provide a surprising amount of light.

“A place of reflection?” Castiel asks.

“Of sorts,” Father Winchester responds.

Castiel moves closer to the altar and realizes that the items on it are instruments of torture: a wooden paddle with holes in it, a metal cilice, a crop, and a discipline. A space between the cilice and crop suggests that another item is currently in use.

“I don’t understand.”

The priest places a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. "’Now I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am filling up what is lacking in Christ's afflictions for the sake of his body, that is, the church.’"

“Paul’s letter to the Colossians?”

Father Winchester nods. “Suffering for others brings one closer to God.”

Castiel scrunches his face up in confusion. “Are you saying that you practice self-flagellation?” That can’t be right. Although, it would probably explain the priest’s inability to laugh, he muses.

The priest bristles. “I practice self-discipline, Deacon. There’s a difference.” When Castiel says nothing, he continues. “You said you are willing to learn. It is my belief that self discipline will help you learn.”

Father Winchester slips off his jacket, hangs it on a hook by the entrance and rolls up his sleeves to his elbows, staring at Castiel as he goes. He unbuckles his pants, his glare never breaking Castiel’s.

Castiel feels a cold sweat break out on his back. He forces himself to break the priest’s stare and glances toward the priest’s hands at his pants. Castiel scrubs a hand across his face as he wonders why his cock just twitched.

As the priest lets his pants drop to the floor, he exposes another cilice on his left thigh, the prongs digging into the muscle.

“Does it hurt?” Castiel asks. As soon as it’s out of his mouth, he realizes how stupid that sounds. A cilice is _supposed_ to hurt.

Father Winchester smirks. “Not as much as you would think. But that is its purpose. A small, constant reminder of how Christ suffered for my sins.”

Castiel stretches out a hand to touch it and then shrinks back. “Forgive me. May I?”

“By all means, Deacon.” He shifts his body, turning his thigh out for the deacon to inspect.

Castiel squats down to inspect the device. It sits snugly around Father’s thigh, the dull tines gripping the flesh gently. He reaches out again and finds the metal is warm to his touch. It’s not very thick, so it must have warmed up to the priest’s body temperature quickly. He imagines that simply standing, the cilice feels fine, sort of a light scratch of nails on skin.

The cilice rests slightly above his skin and Castiel’s fingers dip into the spaces, tracing the shape of the holes on the priest’s skin. Father Winchester’s thigh flexes, causing it to shift and Castiel is enthralled with how it moves.

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel whispers, freezing the moment the words are out of his mouth. He blushes as he attempts to backtrack. “I didn’t -”

“It’s fine, Deacon.” His words soothe Castiel. His hand soothes him even more when it rests on his cheek and he leans into the touch, closing his eyes at the thought of wearing the other cilice on the altar. His heart beats faster, and Castiel has to suck in a calming breath.

“We have work to do, Deacon.”

Castiel clears his throat and stands, only a little wobbly. “Of course, Father.”

The priest pulls his pants back up. Castiel watches as the cilice is hidden again by the cotton fabric. Even though he can’t see it anymore, he’s certain he’ll never look at Father Winchester’s legs the same way again. He’s going to have to take note of how the priest sits from now on so he can imagine the cilice digging into the muscle.

“I assume you know what each of these is?” Father Winchester asks pointing to the items on the table. “What they’re used for?”

Castiel swallows. “Yes, Father.”

“Are you surprised to see them?” His voice drops a little and he steps a little closer to Castiel.

“A little, yes.”

The priest places his hand on the small of Castiel’s back and he tenses at the touch. The hand presses, coaxing Castiel forward. He steps up to the altar and places his hands on the cloth covering it. It’s soft to his touch.

“And you’re willing to accept instruction and discipline?”

He’s really not sure that he is. He understands the idea of self-flagellation, but it’s not something widely practiced anymore. At least not in the States. Catholic men in the Philippines often whip themselves during the Holy Week as do Shiites during the Day of Ashura. The abuse of the flesh during those times is meant to draw blood. Is that what Father Winchester expects of him?

“I - I’m not sure,” he answers honestly. “I’ve never thought about it.”

The priest nods and touches the paddle, gliding his hand over the wood. “And that is where the church goes wrong in this day and age. They should include self-flagellation as a requirement for admittance to the priesthood.”

Before Castiel can say anything, Father Winchester picks up the paddle and swats him on the ass with it. It doesn’t hurt, just startles him, but if used the way the priest intends to use it, Castiel knows that he will be sore.

“That didn’t hurt, did it?” There’s a sparkle in the priest’s eyes that Castiel can’t quite place.

“No, Father. It startled me is all.”

“Good.”

_SMACK_

That one hurt - even through his clothing - and Castiel yelps from the blow. He reaches back to massage his ass but Father grabs his wrist and holds it tight and he delivers another blow to Castiel’s backside.

“Hands and chest on the altar, Deacon.”

Castiel complies, resting his cheek on the altar as well.

“Count.”

_SMACK_

“O-one.”

_SMACK_

“Two.”

They continue to five with no rest for the deacon. By the time it’s over, his ass is on fire, he’s breathing heavily and his eyes are screwed shut. And to Castiel’s surprise, he is half hard in his pants. That can’t be the reaction that Father Winchester wants out of him. He’s sure of it.

“Thank you, Father.”

Father Winchester coughs behind him and sets the paddle back on the altar, picking up the crop. “Pants down, Deacon,” he says roughly.

He’s not sure if he should considering the state he’s in, but Castiel does it anyway. He tries to catch his breath as he fumbles with the belt and button of his pants. He exposes just the swell of his fundament, keeping the rest of him safely tucked away.

“Lower.”

Castiel swallows hard. Maybe Father won’t say anything. He’ll probably just be whipped harder for his reaction, and that thought makes his dick swell even more. He reluctantly drops his pants another few inches, keeping his torso glued to the altar.

Thankfully, Father Winchester says nothing, but certainly he must see what’s happening. While he’s technically covered because of the altar cloth in front of him, it’s got to be tented somewhat from where his dick juts out.

He sucks in a breath when he feels Father’s cool hand on his hot skin. It just lays there, soaking up the heat. If it moves, Castiel will probably cry out again. It hurts, and he knows it’s going to get worse.

Just when he’s gotten used to the touch, the hand is gone, replaced by the crack of the crop on his ass. Without being told, he forces out, “One.”

The crop alternates between his thighs and his buttocks, never landing in quite the same place twice as he counts to five again. By the time Father Winchester is finished, Castiel has tears streaming down his face.

He’s never felt so much pain before. Not when he broke his arm as a kid. Not when he had appendicitis in college. Nothing compares to the pain he feels now. His head swims and he wonders if he’s bleeding. Or if his instruction is over.

“Now,” Father Winchester says. “Do you feel you have endured enough?”

Castiel nods.

Father snorts. “Hardly. Pull your pants back up and take off your shirt.”

He stands warily, not thinking clearly. He’s not quick enough to catch his pants and they fall to the floor, exposing his erection. His face flushes with heat, as if he weren’t already embarrassed enough.

The priest says nothing, though, and Castiel is thankful for the little things. He quickly bends to pull his pants up and winces as his inflamed skin stretches, making the pain that much worse.

His pant’s fabric doesn’t feel good either, but he grits his teeth and bears it. He quickly fastens them and the belt moving as little as humanly possible. He removes the clerical collar and places it on the altar. His hands shake as he unbuttons his shirt.

Father takes pity on him and he reaches out, gently batting away Castiel’s hands. He unbuttons Castiel’s shirt quickly and with efficiency. He doesn’t look at Castiel, instead focusing his attention on the buttons.

As the shirt falls open exposing Castiel’s chest, Father takes one of his hands and unbuttons his cuff. He does the same with the other hand and then slides the shirt off Castiel’s shoulders. It falls to his wrists and he removes it, placing it on the altar.

Father Winchester places a hand on his shoulder and says “Kneel.”

The deacon falls to one knee with a small grunt of pain and another twitch of his cock.

“All the way, Deacon.”

Castiel drops the other knee to the floor. He kneels, placing his hands on the front his thighs, unsure what to do with them. His head remains bowed. The priest runs his fingers through Castiel’s hair and he instinctively leans into the touch.

His head is yanked backward and his eyes fly open and they meet Father’s which are right there in front of him. He studies the man for a moment, Father Winchester’s face giving nothing away.

It’s when the priest leans into Castiel’s ear and whispers, “It’s your turn,” that nearly does the deacon in, especially when Father doesn’t pull back right away. Castiel inhales the man’s scent and wonders why he smells faintly of leather.

When the father stands, leaving Castiel somewhat chilled from the absence of their close proximity, it is to pick up the discipline off the altar. It’s smaller than Castiel imagined one to be, although he’s not sure what he really expected at all.

As Castiel takes the discipline from Father Winchester, their fingers brush and the deacon jolts with a shock of static between them. The rope’s handle is coarse to the touch, the tails moreso. Castiel thinks that when they simply touch the softer skin of his back, not only will there be pain, but they will make him itch, too.

There are seven tails on the discipline, each ending in a simple knot. The knots appear innocuous, but he knows that the moment they land on his back he’ll need all of his willpower not to cry out. He runs the tails over his palm and shudders at the sensation.

“Count.”

That is apparently all the warning Castiel gets. He holds the discipline in his right hand and tosses it over his left shoulder, lighter than what he assumes the father wants from him. He hopes that he will be allowed to work up to harder blows.

As the ropes hit his flesh, Castiel is faced with competing sensory overloads. The knots at the end hit his spine solidly and the harsh rope hits his skin like a whip. As he pulls the discipline away, it drags across his shoulder, the hemp scratching the skin lightly.

“Harder.”

Castiel does it again, forcefully this time, and he does cry out. He’s not sure if it’s worse or simply _different_ from the crop, but either way after five lashes, his back burns with heat. By ten he’s sure he’s bleeding. Mercifully, the father stops him at fifteen, relieving him of the discipline and placing it back on the altar.

Castiel starts to sit back on his haunches, momentarily forgetting about the beating his ass and thighs took earlier. He hisses and stays upright as he balls his fists, setting them on his thighs. His breathing is heavy but he isn’t crying.

He is, however, hard as a rock, his pants tented obscenely.

The priest changes position and situates himself in front of Castiel. Castiel can’t help but throw himself at the man in front of him, hugging his lower body tightly, his head pressed into the priest’s stomach, his torso flush with his legs.

Father lets out a startled _oof_ as he’s grasped. He cards his fingers through Castiel’s hair once more. “Do you understand, Deacon?” His words are soft, almost reverent.

He has no idea what to say. He really doesn’t. This was supposed to be penance, meant to absolve him of his sins and bring him closer to God. Instead, he clings to Father Winchester with a cockstand harder than he’s ever had before. He chooses honesty once more.

“I - I’m not sure I do,” he admits, his words somewhat muffled by the priest’s belly.

“‘Let my beloved come into his garden and taste its choice fruits.’” When Castiel says nothing, he continues. “‘His hair is wavy and black as a raven. His eyes are like doves by the water streams.’”

 _Song of Solomon_? Castiel thinks. His brow furrows as his mind races to figure out what Father Winchester means. Why would he be quoting Song of Solomon, the one book of the bible that celebrates sexual love?

Is that what this has been about the whole time?

“‘I belong to my beloved, and his desire is for me.’”

Father carefully pulls Castiel off him and sinks to his knees in front of him. He takes Castiel’s face in his hands, their eyes locked for what seems like an eternity before he kisses the deacon.

Castiel hesitates briefly but then his hands fist the priest’s shirt as he returns the kiss with as much force as he can muster. His skin is on fire from his shoulders to mid-thigh while his blood practically _sings_ with joy.

Castiel realizes as he pulls them closer together that the priest is just as hard as he is as their cocks rub together. Castiel moans into their kiss, which quickly gets more heated now that their bodies are flush.

But is it right? Should they be doing this? Castiel pulls away first, although he can’t gather any words to form a sentence just yet. He slumps a little, his breath ragged.

“We -”

“Yes. We can.”

And that’s all it takes. Castiel surges forward, kissing Father with everything he’s got. Their teeth clack together. His hands drop to the other man’s ass and he grips the swell tightly, pulling him closer so their cocks line up again. He’s grateful that his priest doesn’t do the same.

Until he does.

Castiel gasps at the bloom of pain on his skin. As soon as he does, Father’s hands fly off and he apologizes, but they don’t stop kissing. The priest lays his hands back on Castiel’s face.

“Father -” he starts between kisses.

“Dean.”

“Dean. Will you fuck me?”

“Fuck yes.”

After that it’s a race to get undressed. Dean flings his collar up on the altar and unbuttons his shirt as quickly as he can while Castiel works on his pants. Dean unbuttons only the minimum amount of buttons so he can rip the shirt off over his head. He throws it somewhere, neither of them care where it lands.

The men work on the other’s pants and soon both men have their cocks out, each stroked by a hand it never felt before. Their foreheads touch as they jack each other, kissing abandoned for breathing heavily, sharing the air.

“Father, please.” Castiel fears he’s going to come before Dean gets anywhere near his ass.

Dean stands and coaxes Castiel to follow. But before he does, Castiel takes time with the celice strapped to Dean’s leg. He pushes it with a finger so the tines dig into Dean’s thigh. Dean says nothing, most likely accustomed to the feeling. Castiel then dips a tongue into one of the openings and is rewarded with a taste of metallic sweat.

Castiel traces the celice’s delicate pattern for a moment until he feels Dean’s hand in his hair. He continues the tracing as his other hand slides up Dean’s leg to his crotch, where he grasps Dean’s dick causing the man to moan.

It’s then that he glances up to see Dean with his eyes closed, head tilted back exposing his throat. Castiel licks the head of Dean’s cock as he puts pressure on the celice. The sound Dean makes is nearly inhuman. Castiel smiles. It’s a good sound.

Dean groans again and pulls Castiel off his dick and helps him stand. They shuck off their remaining clothes and come together with desperate need. Dean pulls Castiel into an embrace and even though he winces, Castiel doesn’t pull away.

They grind against each other, hands and mouths exploring foreign territory. With harsh kisses and forceful hands, Castiel is on the brink of coming. He’s so close he pushes Dean away.

The priest’s confused look lasts only a moment as Castiel resumes his earlier position draped over the table. His cock brushes the altar cloth and he sighs, the light touch to the head frustrating him.

His eyes follow Dean’s as the priest circles behind him and hears the dull thud of his knees hitting the floor. He inhales sharply when Dean grips his ass, the flesh stinging anew. But when Dean parts his cheeks and licks his hole, Castiel forgives him.

Dean licks him and dips his tongue into the muscle as his hands knead the globes of his ass. Castiel pushes back into his face, wordlessly demanding more. His fingers clutch the altar cloth tightly and he screws his eyes shut to hide from the crucifix staring at him.

He’s about to ask for more when he feels a finger breach his hole and, fuck, it feels wonderful. He hasn’t done anything like this since joining the seminary and he vaguely wonders if they should stop. But then Dean hits his prostate and he cries out, all thoughts of stopping abandoned.

He concentrates on the sensation, shutting out everything else. It takes him a moment to realize that Dean now stands behind him, peppering his shoulder with kisses. He’s not sure when that happened. He tilts his head up and opens his eyes, his face questioning Dean’s actions.

“Oil,” Dean says holding up a small plastic bottle with an “I” on it.

Castiel barks out a laugh. “You’re using Oil of the Infirm to fuck me?”

“Unless you want me to use the baptismal oil and be baptized by my dick, yes.” Dean pours some of the oil onto his palm and coats his cock with it. He pours a little more on his fingers and then drizzles a line down Castiel’s crack and makes quick work of opening him up, making sure to brush the deacon’s prostate every so often.

Soon enough, Castiel rocks back into Dean’s hand and he’s certain he’s ready. “Do it,” he begs. “Fuck me.” He winces at the loss of the fingers in his ass.

Castiel stays flat on the table while the head of Dean’s cock pushes into him. He steadies his breathing as he waits for the priest to be fully seated inside him. It slides in so slow that it’s almost torturous, but once he’s all the way in, Castiel practically hums with content.

Dean doesn’t move for a few seconds, giving Castiel the time to adjust to the feeling. He pulls back out leaving only the head inside and slams back into Castiel, rattling the items on the altar.

His pace is brutal, fucking Castiel hard and fast. His ass and thighs are on fire from the paddle and crop, but it heightens the bliss he feels. It’s exquisite, this pain mingled with pleasure and he can’t help but think how very wrong what they are doing is, but when Dean pings his prostate again, he doesn’t care anymore.

Dean drapes himself over Castiel’s back, one hand slinking around his chest, the other grasps his cock. He pulls the deacon up, keeping his pace while jacking Castiel off.

“Do you understand now, Deacon?” he breathes into Castiel’s ear.

Castiel’s head swims. He’s still not sure what his lesson was supposed to be today, but if this is the end result, he may just leave the priesthood.

The crucifix tips over and rattles to the concrete floor.

**Author's Note:**

> My [Tumblr](http://www.trekchik.tumblr.com). I'm nice.


End file.
